Trimming the junk

It's the small stuff. The forks coming out of the dishwasher that still have rice between the tines.  The dog and cat fur that breeds like bunnies.  The flotsam and jetsam of life that builds up on the stairs, the newel post, beside the front door with the leashes, the boots, and the cushions for the lawn chairs, carried inside on a rainy afternoon.  Sometimes I think a tipi really is the way to go, but I've tried that. The smoke never did exit the flap correctly, the ground is hard as the dickens, and in the summer heat and humidity, there's no air so you're a sweaty mess.  What's the solution?

Ignoring it seems like a good plan until it's yipping at your ankles to be cleaned, picked up and put away, or shoved into someone else's closet. I'm too jealous of my quiet time at the computer, writing, to be able to stand hearing someone else running the vacuum cleaner or knocking the broom on the outside porch.  It's a dilemma all writers face: do the laundry or finish the chapter first?

I think the perfect solution is less to clean, pick up, or keep track of.  Closets have been my enemy for a couple of weeks now, and I ruthlessly toss into the Goodwill pile.  No one sees their shiny emptiness or organization but moi.  Which is fine.  Goodness knows, they'll fill up with junk again. But for now, I have some semblance of order somewhere. 

Order isn't a necessity for this writer, but it helps.  You wouldn't know it by looking at my desk area, but there is a reason for the piles. I know what's there. They need a ruthless weeding, but that'll come on the next rainy day.  While all this pruning and tossing is going on, I'm pruning and tossing the WIP in my head.

It's all good.